


Green Eyes and a Heart of Gold

by YamNyletak17



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Coffee Shops, Dancer Natasha Romanov, Falling In Love, Natasha Romanov Feels, New York, Steve Rogers Feels, romanogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamNyletak17/pseuds/YamNyletak17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I…” He begins, but doesn’t seem to know how to justify himself. She quirks the corner of her mouth at him, not necessarily friendly, but not offended either.<br/>“I like it.” She states, because she does, despite the fact that the melancholic mood of it is slightly disconcerting. He seems confused by the prospect, but responds readily when she asks him how much.<br/>“Uh… thirty bucks?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Eyes and a Heart of Gold

It’s a tired little school, with rickety barres that are functional, but barely so, and a wall of mirrors that are scratched and scuffed. The faded hardwood floors are worn in places, sometimes the lights flicker, and there are a couple of all-too-insistent birds that like to nest in the curve and points of the letters on the building outside, reading _Petrovna School of Ballet._

The woman who runs it was not its original owner, but the one it was left to after old Lubov Petrovna passed last year. She’s a slight, pretty red-head with full lips and piercing green eyes, and a closed-off demeanor rooted in a deep-seated lack of trust. She immigrated from Russia at the age of three, with a father who pushed her too far and left her with mental and physical scars that no one has been able to repair.

Across the street is a new-age coffee shop with a bit too much colored lighting and draperies, with chalkboards for walls and an eclectic menu. The furniture and place settings are a thrifty mismatched, and the music can’t decide what genre it wants to be. The place is small, but they still let the young, battle-worn soldier sell his artwork in the corner, across from where the live musicians play, at least when he’s not busy serving.

He doesn’t really seem to belong in the shop, with too-blue eyes set in a lovely face, and an outdated swooping hairstyle. He wears cheap blue jeans, varying colors of leather jackets, and simple white t-shirts that never seem to hang the way t-shirts should, not when you’re bound in herculean musculature. And while kind and tolerant, he tends towards a thousand-yard stare when left to his own devices, and probably thinks too much about the best friend that he lost in the war.

She didn’t use to go in the coffee shop because she didn’t used to be big on the drink, at least not until she took over the ballet studio. But now she seems to drink it too much, because of the hours of classes and upkeep and her own practice sessions. There’s not enough time in the day.

She’s decided she likes her coffee too-sweet to really be coffee, with whipped cream, chocolate, and ice crystals and everything that will take away the bitterness but leave the caffeine. The barista with the scattered script tattoos and short brown hair remembers this, so when they make eye contact, she doesn’t bother with the winding line at the counter, just sits at one of the barstools to wait.

“Here ya go.” A cup is sat in front of her minutes later, her name scrawled across the plain white surface in black marker. She slides her card across the table in exchange, and the barista – Katelyn, her name tag says – slides it before handing it back with a receipt.

“Thanks.” Katelyn nods and then she’s ignoring the dirty looks from impatient, line-dwelling patrons as she walks toward the door. She bumps into the painting-laden man coming in for his morning shift, a significant amount of her coffee slopping onto the ground. She can’t help but think that some god is telling her she was ingesting too much sugar anyhow.

“Sorry, sorry!” The man says, and she notices that even flustered, he’s quite beautiful. He tries unsuccessfully to catch the canvas that had been balanced too precariously on top of his pile, and it clatters to the ground, a dull thudding distracting the room momentarily before they all turn back to their papers and iridescent screens.

“It’s fine.” She says, dryly, bending to pick it up and brushing off a bit of whipped cream from the corner. She offers it back to him, eyes settling on his handsome features. The man’s red around the ears, flush spreading to his cheeks, and she wonders why for a fleeting second until her eyes return to the painting she’d returned.

It’s a fairly dismal piece, not in skill, but in mood. The room depicted is dark, with what little light is offered to it reflecting off of wall length mirrors, and onto the subject. She’s a dancer, skin white with harsh shadows, with black leggings and a flowing shirt and faded, scuffed pink slippers. And the reddest hair, framing forlorn, lonely features. It takes her a moment to make the connection between herself and the figure, and subsequently, the man’s embarrassment.

“I…” He begins, but doesn’t seem to know how to justify himself. She quirks the corner of her mouth at him, not necessarily friendly, but not offended either.

“I like it.” She states, because she does, despite the fact that the melancholic mood of it is slightly disconcerting. He seems confused by the prospect, but responds readily when she asks him how much.

“Uh… thirty bucks?” He phrases like a question, running his hand through his blonde hair and shrugging. She raises an eyebrow, but says, “ok” and pulls out her wallet. She writes a check, because she never has cash and he probably doesn’t take cards, and then takes the painting out of his hands again.

“Thanks.” She says, and he smiles uncomfortably, taking the check she offers him. He looks down at it, turns red around the ears again when he reads the admittedly teasing, mean-spirited memo she’s left on it - ‘ _creepy stalker painting’ –_ but manages to stammer out a response.

“No problem,” He pauses, looks at the check again. “Natasha Romanoff.”

She nods once at him, smirks amusedly, before leaving him behind. She returns to the ballet school, where her students have already begun to accumulate because of her lateness, and hangs the painting amongst the plaques and photos of previous students on the walls. She takes just a moment to focus on the pretty white scrawl of the artist’s name in the corner, turning the sound of it over in her head.

Steve Rogers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno... I've had this partially written for quite awhile and I kept rewriting and rewriting and finally settled on this as the best version of it. The title comes from The Lone Bellow song of the same name.
> 
> It's not very long, but it's just my prologue of sorts. Thanks for reading, and your comments and kudos are much appreciated!


End file.
